​​         Chinese Stories in English ​  

Ordinary People 06
Stories printed in 《百姓人家》(2023), 秦俑/赵建宁选编
Page citation and link to online Chinese text noted after each story.

                                          1. Letter to the Wind                     3. Screaming               4. Underground Poetry Society
                                         2. Flock on Gesar Grassland                                               5. Roe Deer

1. A Letter to the Wind (寄给风的信)
Su Sanpi (苏三皮)

      Things quieted down after lights-out at ten p.m. The isolated lamps in the corridor lacked even a hint of life. Everything presented in good order in this extremely organized environment. No one was allowed to walk around willy-nilly after the lights went out, and even the slightest noise was forbidden. Some prisoners stayed up on night duty, but the rest had to get in bed before the lights were turned off, and bury all their realistic or unrealistic thoughts under the covers.
      These rules had been engraved in everyone's mind since the day they got to this place. Anyone who crossed the line had to pay a price. At the very least, they’d be hit with a deduction from their assessment points, and they could even end up in solitary confinement, so everyone followed the rules to the letter. Up at six in the morning and lights off at ten in the evening; complete a certain amount of production tasks every day; and recite the norms of behavior from memory after dinner. Even the use and storage of daily necessities couldn’t deviate from the regulations by even half an inch. You had to put aside your emotions in this place, and hide your individuality as well, the deeper the better. Hiding yourself in the bottomless darkness as deep as possible, to the point of complete unconsciousness, was the only way to survive long-term.
      The silence and loneliness made the night drag out even longer, until Old Li was awakened by quiet sobbing in the early hours of the morning. He pricked up his ears to identify it, and it seemed like the sound was coming from the lower bunk bed next to the bathroom. He’d gotten used to using his ears to analyze every detail around him. His ears were like eyes, patrolling everywhere, not missing any sound. He’d naturally acquired this instinct after spending so much time in this place. You wouldn’t be wrong to say he was always on the alert.
      He pulled the quilt over his head, then pulled it down again. Another one of the rules -- prisoners could not cover their heads with their quilts while they slept. A senior prisoner like him wouldn’t make such an elementary mistake. He had to tear apart two pieces of paper to stuff into his ears to block out the intermittent sobbing. Almost everyone in this place knew better than to meddle in other people's business.
      A clean-shaven, fragile looking young man who’d just been incarcerated occupied the lower bed next to the bathroom. Newcomers always got that bunk. A first-come, first-served protocol inevitably prevails, even without bullying, especially in places with such ironclad regulations as this one. The young fellow showed no inclination toward disdain or rejection of the rules. Perhaps the one-month indoctrination to prison life he received when he first came in had taught him a lesson.
      Old Li made it a point to look when he got out of bed and washed up in the morning. The boy had obvious black circles under bloodshot eyes. Old Li sighed under his breath.
      The young man's workstation happened to be just across from Old Li's, and Old Li unintentionally glanced at him a few more times. The prisoners worked in an assembly line where errors in one step of the process would affect the following steps. Each prisoner had a fixed task to complete every day, and if they failed to complete it, they’d be reprimanded or even have their assessment points deducted.
      Assessment points were closely related to monthly commendations. A deduction meant that the prisoner wouldn’t receive commendations toward sentencing credits, and lost credits reduced the possibility of a sentence reduction. Who doesn't want to get out a few days earlier?
      Old Li noticed that the young man seemed absent-minded the whole morning and made several mistakes in his work. The prisoners further along the production line were extremely dissatisfied with the new guy and he got a stern warning. This got Old Li thinking and he started to worry a bit.
      In a daze, he couldn't help but think of his son. The boy would be as old as this young man if he were still alive. Old Li hadn't dared to think about his son for many years because, when he did, he’d feel sad and negative. The negative thoughts would impact his reform and delay his release from prison, so Old Li suppressed such thoughts whenever they arose.
      Everything would be the same as before without that damn truck driver, and Old Li hated the guy because of it. The truck driver had taken his son out, so he’d taken the truck driver out. What a sad turn of events.
      When they stopped work at noon, Old Li happened to see the young man hide a thin electronic device. Later, after dinner, when everyone was outside for some fresh air, he deliberately asked around about how the young man had come to be incarcerated.
      This was a taboo subject. Prisoners weren’t supposed to ask each other about their criminal experiences -- another one of those rules. Nonetheless, even if no one talked about it, it didn't take long for everyone to know who’d committed what crime. Old Li would’ve found out sooner or later, so he didn't need to take the risk, but he was past caring about that anymore. The thin electronic device kept dangling before his eyes.
      Old Li approached the young man after the exercise period. His voice dripping with flattery, he asked, "Can I ask you to do me a favor?" The young man ignored him and turned his head away.
      Smiling, Old Li continued, "It's not a difficult thing. I want to write a letter to my son, but I’m illiterate and I know you’re college educated. I’ll dictate and you just write it down." Without waiting for the young man to agree, Old Li shoved paper and pen into his hand.
      Old Li deliberately slowed down his speech. The young man wrote:

​Dear son,
      I haven’t seen you in a long time. I’m fine, please don't worry about me. I heard you had a few problems some time ago, that your attitude went sour and you even had some bad thoughts. That worried me to no end. Most things in life don’t turn out the way we want, but you have to deal calmly with whatever happens. I ran into a big problem, not like what I wanted, but did I let it get me down?
      You’re still young and have a long way to go in life. The setbacks you see in front of you aren’t really setbacks. You have to remember what I’m telling you: Like the proverb says, as long as you keep the mountain green, you won’t run out of firewood -- where there’s life, there’s hope. Don’t be afraid of failure, be afraid of not getting back up when you fail.
      Think about this, son. If you take things too hard and come to a dead end, what meaning did your father’s life have? I beg you, son, don't do stupid things. You have to cheer up, my good son....

      The young man had tears in his eyes. Old Li watched him get up and go into the bathroom. He finally breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the sound of an electronic device falling into the toilet.

Text at 《百姓人家》 p. 192. Also available here.
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2. The Flock on Gesar Grassland (格撒草原上的羊群)
Zhou Zeyu (周泽宇)

      Nier is a shepherd on a distant border.
      Shepherds drive their sheep to the center of the grassland when autumn approaches. All the grass will have been eaten by the time winter comes, and that’s when they sell the sheep. They sell the weakest ones in the flock.
      Nier didn’t follow the crowd, though. He drove his sheep to the edge of the Gesar grassland, where there was plenty of grass and no need to worry about competition. It was difficult to rush back from there to sell the sheep before the season changed, but Nier preferred going to that faraway place.
      The steppe was unusually hot and humid this year instead of the normal chill. People were starting to complain about the residents of distant cities and towns. According to Big Bro, they blew hot air onto the grasslands when they turned on their air conditioners. It pushed the hot air onto the grasslands outside the cities like tumbleweeds.
      People knew Nier was going to Gesar when he stood up and walked toward the northwest. The sounds of their frolicking died down as they watched him leave. Other herders’ sheep still grazed nearby, puffs of white on the green grass, but the sheep didn’t raise their heads to see Nier off. They just wagged their tails, as if to say they knew.
      Nier's spirited sheep marched like horses with their heads held high. The entire herd was looking at the verdant, emerald grass in the misty distance. They couldn’t actually see that patch of green yet -- it existed only in the memories of Nier and his sheep -- but their imaginations fashioned the memories into something vivid and poignant. They were going to the Gesar Grasslands, not for food, but for a rendezvous.
      “Gesar Grasslands” was Nier’s name for that bit of the steppe. “Gesar” was actually a nickname Nier had given his friend, Tuoli. On the grasslands, “Tuoli” refers to an eagle in the sky.
      Nier said that eagles are stupid animals. That puzzled Gesar. "How can an eagle be stupid?" Nier smiled. He didn't need to explain. He just needed an opportunity to demonstrate.
      Gesar used to follow Nier to the grasslands to herd sheep every day. They’d pounce on the sheep to scare them when they were grazing with their heads lowered. The sheep would run away in fear, leaving a trail of white behind them.
      "Cowardly sheep", Gesar called them, laughing. The sheep shied away when they saw him. "Sheep aren’t cowards," Nier replied.
      The two boys spent every day together, but as summer came to an end, Gesar had to return to his home in the city because school was about to start.
      The last time Gesar came to keep Nier company, Nier begged him to go with him to that far away spot in the grasslands. Nier hadn’t named the place “Gesar” at the time. In fact, Gesar hadn’t even been there yet. Gesar did go with him, and the two of them chased the sheep and sang songs on the grassland. The young boys sang with their hearts full of emotion, and their resolute voices pierced the heavens.
      An old sheep covered in curly white fleece with big hind quarters lagged behind. It walked a bit and stopped, walked a bit and stopped. Every so often it shook to rid its body of grass roots and mosquitoes.
      The flock and the two black-haired boys looked like giant sheep sprinkled across the wild plain as they moved along. Only emptiness surrounded them, the human population having grown increasingly sparse. An eagle's loud, unrestrained cry hung in the blue sky above them.
      Nier let the sheep go to roam and forage freely when they reached their destination. The sheep seemed to have been freed from invisible chains. They scattered and took over their own territories to eat as their owner plopped his butt down on the grass.
      The eagle's cry was growing closer, and Tuoli looked up to see it was flying lower and lower. His father had named him “Eagle”, but in fact this was the first time he’d seen a real one.
      The eagle, a deep black, drew a circle in the blue sky as it gradually approached the ground. Nier sat comfortably and watched his friend Tuoli and the low- flying bird. He held a knife wrapped in sheepskin in his hand.
      The eagle abruptly swooped down toward the oldest member of the flock, the one with the biggest rear end. It aimed to drag its victim up into the sky, but the sheep ran scared back to the flock. The eagle got tangled up in the wool on its back, and the sheep was too heavy to lift. Its butt rose and fell as it ran away. It hadn't run so fast for a long time.
      The rest of the herd got scared and ran to avoid the old sheep, which then headed for a grove of poplar trees and shrubs a bit farther away. The eagle’s screeching pierced the air, a continuous plaintive scream.
      Tuoli chased the sheep and the eagle into the bushes. Before long, the sheep, the eagle and the boy came running back out. The eagle was on the brink of death.
      "Nier, cut the eagle loose."
      "You know it, Gesar.”
      "Nier!"
      Nier gestured for Gesar to control the sheep. Gesar clamped its head between his legs and held its ears in a death grip with both hands. The animal was now under pressure from both front and back. Nier rushed over with his knife in hand and twisted the thick wool on the sheep's back. The eagle struggled against him, and he poked at it with his fingers. It gave him a chilling look as dark as night. As soon as Nier let it go, it rose up into the sky, still screeching, and was gone.
      "My dear friend Tuoli, Gesar, sheep aren’t cowards."
      "I get it, Nier."
      After the sheep had eaten their fill, Nier drove them home and sent Gesar off to school. Once Gesar went off to the city to study, he never again returned to the steppe or to see Nier.
      Nier still herds and sells sheep year round. Come autumn, he still goes to that distant borderland. The other shepherds told him not to go to such a faraway place, but Nier said it was the Gesar Grassland and wasn’t far at all.
      He drove his sheep to the Gesar Grassland again today. The sheep began to eat grass with their heads down as soon as they arrived. The grass was full of moisture and the sound of them eating was like music that moved his spirit.
      Before he knew it, one sheep had walked slowly out of his sight. It was an old one whose big butt stuck out, and it was covered with mud and grass roots. It was so old that even the most gluttonous men would think its flesh couldn’t be eaten, so Nier could let it fend for itself, not caring whether it lived or died.
      He noticed that his flock was too spread out, so he blew his sheep whistle. The other sheep gathered together and then lowered their heads to continue eating. The old one seemed not to hear the whistle and kept walking with its head down until it was just a black dot. When it remembered to look back, Nier didn’t know if it was looking back at the flock or at him.
      He stood up and called to the sheep. Such an old creature couldn’t be eaten when it died, and it’d take half a day to dig a pit to bury it. It was just like the others, though, guileless and obedient.
      But this time, the old sheep didn’t listen. It turned back without hesitating and continued going towards the northwest, its big butt swinging. Nier watched it go. It eventually disappeared over the edge of the steppe before Nier awoke from his reverie.

Text at 《百姓人家》 p. 195. Also available here.
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3. Screaming (尖叫)
Cloud Nine (九峰云)

      Western Wang is a squeamish girl. She makes a mountain out of every molehill she sees. However, she does make people feel that she’s aware of what’s happening in society. She first caught my attention on the Garden Bridge in Shanghai.
      At the time I’d been staring at the pitch-black river water under the bridge for quite a while. It seemed to suck up everything, including time. I was praying that the New Year's Eve fireworks would carry me along with them into the black hole, but when they lit up, a scream pulled my attention back from the abyss. I wondered who was being so annoying, and then I saw Western wearing sunglasses. The reason I found out her name so quickly was that I was terribly impatient and blurted out the question as soon as I thought of it:
      “'Who are you?”
      “My name’s Western Wang.” She looked up at me and asked, “Are the fireworks beautiful? I bet you came here just to see them.”
      I thought to myself, “If the fireworks were as beautiful as you, why would I stop watching them to flirt with you?”
      She screamed again. “Oh, fuck! Are you trying to pick me up? So I’ve met another one!”
      That scream completely pierced through all the dark thoughts that had absorbed my mind for the last three months. Such thoughts were completely against my personal code of honor and had tortured me for so many days, but the scream chased them away faster than I could say “get lost”.
      She’d stretched out her hand in my direction and I reached out to grab it. That’s when I realized that her sunglasses weren’t a fashion accessory but a necessity. She touched my fingers, stroking each one daintily, with neither too much nor too little pressure. My fingers were chilly but the temperature rose as she got closer to my palm. My palm was hot by the time her palm met mine.
      She screamed again. “Your hand’s so big! You aren’t a basketball player, are you? This is the first time I've touched a basketball player's hand!”
      I didn't want to explain, but didn’t want to disappoint her, either, so I thought up a sensational story about how I’d played through injuries and won the championship for the team but ruined my career in the process. Such a cliché! I fabricated it in just five minutes, but it caused her to shout countless times: “Oh my God!”; “Did it hurt?”; “What a shame!”; “I can't imagine it!”
      Her exaggerated cries caught the attention of the people around us. They turned around to look at us frequently, but no matter how much they looked, she didn't seem like Little Red Riding Hood and I didn't seem like the Big Bad Wolf, so they soon turned their attention to other more interesting things.
      We wandered aimlessly around the May Thirtieth Movement Monument, the Bund, Chen Yi’s statue, and the first section of the Bund on Suzhou Creek. I could see the beautiful scenery but could only think of dry descriptions: “The Monument has three stone pillars, thick at the bottom and narrower at the top, that lean towards a central point.”
      She was more like an artist who sees beauty with her own eyes: “Everyone says the Monument‘s very tall! How tall is it? What color is the stone? I touched it and it's not rough, but not particularly smooth, either, and it's very cold! That’s great! Is it lit up? What colors? Different colors? Orange? Blue? Purple? And do the colors alternate? Wow! Amazing!”
      Her screaming gave me a headache at first, but later I got used to it. I added some literary flair to my descriptions of the scenery:
      “A bottle opener, a sharp knife, candied hawthorns; three majestic buildings positioned on the far side of the billowy river, competing for brilliance with the buildings of numerous countries behind us. The river reflects history, and history is alive on the riverbank. They’re talking to each other and to us.”
      She turned her head to me. She kept saying, not screaming, “so beautiful, so beautiful”. Everyone around us was saying the same thing. She said she’d been crying but I didn't see any tears. Still, I helped her wipe her face. With an exaggerated motion, she took the tissue and wiped it across her face, then pretended to blow her nose with it.
      We exchanged cell phone numbers after midnight. I mustered up the courage to send her a text before I went to bed, asking if she was free on the evening of March 1st. Firefox, a band I particularly like, was performing at Dog Paddle Live House and I wondered if she was interested in going with me. She asked if it’d be noisy and I said it would, very much so. She screamed, “That’s great, because then for sure no one’ll say my voice is too ugly.” I wanted to say she had the most beautiful voice I’d ever heard, something I wanted to have but never could.
      She’d hugged me tightly when we said goodbye. It was just like three months before, when that girl had watched the light in my eyes flicker and go dim. She’d hugged me tightly, too, and then went away.
      The second time I saw Western was at Dog Paddle Live House.
      The audience screamed crazily for five minutes every time Firefox’s lead singer played a note, but Western's screams stood out from all the others, so much so that the lead singer kept looking at her. She didn't care about such things and kept my pulling my hand above our heads and screaming. It was infectious and I copied her swaying hands and body. She bounced around in place and opened her mouth round and wide to scream crazily, and I followed her lead. She shook her head vehemently for a while and screamed, sometimes a high-pitched scream and sometimes lower, and so did I. I felt like I was about to have a concussion. She was immersed in her own rhythm, out of sync with the screaming crowd around her, but the people around her didn't seem repulsed. Everyone was into Firefox’s hoarse singing and sang their famous songs along with them.
      During the intervals between songs, Western kept asking me, “Are you really happy? Really high? It’s such a turn-on to have so many people screaming together!” I nodded vigorously, with my mouth wide open, using my expression to show that I was almost fainting from the pleasure. She put her sweaty arms around my neck and stroked my Adam's apple with her thumb, lingering there for a couple of seconds before returning to the back of my neck. She twisted her waist gently as the music slowed down. Her sunglasses directly faced my eyes and the lenses reflected the flickering lights.
      I sneaked a look at her a few times and thought of the dark river water that night when I met her, as well as the expressionless hug that I seemed to be learning to forget. I signaled to her that we should go. She said she was thirsty and gave out one last scream. She tripped along, leading me to the bar, where she ordered a glass of mezcal for herself and one for me.
      She took my hand and said, “I can hear what's in your heart.” She pointed a finger at my heart, then took my finger and put it on her lips. “Whatever you want to say in the future, I can say it for you.”
      I didn't say anything, not because I didn't want to, but because I couldn't. She wiped the tears from my eyes, not because she saw them, but because she couldn't.
      If she could’ve seen me smiling, that would’ve been beautiful, too.

Text at 《百姓人家》 p. 199. Also available here.
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4. The Underground Poetry Society (地下诗社)
Wang Daye (王大烨)

      I wrote more poetry than I typed code during my four years at university. My major was software engineering, but I didn’t love it. I loved poetry.
      Richie Bo was a buddy I met in the school literature club, a “public-private partnership” partly funded by the government. He’d been in the club for two years. The club’s only actual activity was drafting newspaper articles to be copied on a blackboard at the middle school affiliated with the university.
      The club members were weird, too. They were all interested in online literature but had no other common hobbies. Richie was the only exception. He belonged to an off-campus “underground poetry club”. He said that he could take poetry or leave it, though; he loved poetry that brought love, but not poetry that didn’t.
      I wrote some poems during that period. I submitted them everywhere, but it was like dropping pebbles in the sea – they were all rejected. I urgently needed a chance to prove myself, so I asked Richie what activities the underground poetry club had.
      Richie said there was a poetry passing activity that afternoon. When I asked what that meant, he said it was similar to passing a flower while beating a drum. One person would choose a term or a word, and the others had to recite a poem about it, following certain rules. It didn't have to be an original poem.
      We took off for the poetry club, but after winding our way through town for a long time, he stopped at a billiard hall. I was puzzled and asked him why he ended up there, because playing billiards could damage my character. Richie said that I should just make the best of it, because the owner of the billiard hall was the club president's father. I said “Oh”.
      Richie led me through the smoke-filled billiard hall to a place that looked like a warehouse. He knocked on the iron door with his hand, making a strangely dull thud. I looked at the shirtless macho types around us and couldn't help but feel a little timid. I wondered if this guy might not be selling me out. The iron door creaked open a crack before long and a thin boy with gold-rimmed glasses showed his head.
      “Who’s this, Richie?” he asked when he saw me.
      Richie said “He’s my buddy, Blaze Liu. He’s got more talent than most, no less than Hai Zi a few years ago.”
      The thin boy stepped aside and let us in. Richie introduced him as the president of the underground poetry club, a poet famous far and wide with the mannerisms of an early Bei Dao. I was about to shake hands with this Bei Dao, but he just nodded in welcome. He asked us to come in quickly because it was getting late.
      I saw a long rectangular table under dim lights when I walked in. Five or six people sat around it, both men and women. The lighting was subdued and the atmosphere a bit awkward. Richie put his arm around my shoulders and introduced me as a college classmate, a poetry fanatic who’d probably rule at the day's event. I hurried to tell them I wouldn’t presume to claim such skill.
      We sat down at the table. I could still hear cursing and the sound of billiard balls striking each other outside. A fat man went over and closed the door tightly, and the room abruptly became much quieter. After a while, Richie leaned over and used his age-old skills to chat up a girl. I’m not sociable by nature, so I was left to sit there in a daze, awkward as a bump on a log.
      Soon, “Bei Dao” clapped his hands and said we should start the poetry passing. Today's word was “springtime” as a metaphor for youth. Both metrical poetry and free verse would be acceptable. According to the rules, the newcomer would recite first after ten minutes to prepare. His words got me a bit flustered. I rubbed my hands in my lap and whispered to Richie, “Is it okay if I don't recite well?”
      Richie was chatting with the girl next to him and answered without turning his head, “Anything’s OK. It doesn't matter.” I closed my eyes, calmed myself down as best I could, and began to mobilize my brain cells to create. After ten minutes, I stood up awkwardly and muttered, “As springtime slips away, it leaves us ugly.” Shameful.
      After some sparse applause under the dim light, a girl in a gray T-shirt covered with plastic rhinestones stood up and said, “I’ll take it from here, Mr. President.” When the president nodded, she cleared her throat and chanted, “Youth, oh youth. My youth brings light, like electricity or wood on fire. When it fades, I feel abandoned. If it returns, I know it can only be a dream.” She stretched out her right hand and tilted her face as she spoke, and when she sat down, she smiled and glanced in my direction. I felt a little uncomfortable and quickly looked away.
      The next person to stand up was the fat man who’d closed the door. He addressed me before he even started reading his poem, giving me a bunch of background info about himself. I gave him an awkward smile. His poem was overly romantic if not just empty words. No one else's poems were moving. I thought there’d be more activities, but after one round and a short break, the president said, “Okay, that’s it for today.”
      I was stunned and asked Richie, “That’s all?”
      He said, “What else should there be?”
      I sighed and was about to leave with the others, but just then there was another thud at the door. The fat man stood up, looking impatient. He opened the door and the white light from outside hurt my eyes. A girl in a white short-sleeved shirt came in. She girl asked the president, if she was too late, and he replied that she could speak and then we’d leave. He told her the day’s topic.
      She nodded and said, “Excuse me, everyone. I just finished playing badminton with some friends. I want to drink something first.” She took a drink of water and paused a moment. Then, drawing out her words, she said: “Youth is a hatchet that’s not sharp.”
      After a short silence, the president asked her what the metaphor meant. She replied, “In youth, everyone considers themself a hatchet that can cut through all the thistles and thorns. Only later do they realize the blade is blunt and will only become duller and duller until it eventually returns to the soil.”
      The metaphor shocked me. In an instant, it seemed as if a blunt axe really had struck my heart. A feeling of powerlessness and illusion rose in me. I remained standing there until the sound of billiard balls striking each other outside woke me up.
      The girl had disappeared by then. I hurried to ask Richie who she was. He answered impatiently, “Who?”
      “The girl in the white short-sleeved shirt. The one who said that youth is a blunt hatchet.”
      “She left. You into her?” When I said no, he smiled obscenely and said, “Drop the act. I can see right through you. Really, though, I don’t know who she is. She’s only been here once before.” He lowered his voice and continued, “But the girl wearing sandals and the short-sleeved shirt with rhinestones all over it is interested in you.”
      I was floored. “Didn't we come here to have a discussion about poetry? To express concern about the future of poetry in China?”
      He frowned. “You can express concern about whatever you want. Be concerned about cereals and veggies, no one’ll stop you. Oh, that’s right, your hatchet girl probably hasn't gone far. If you want to chase her, get going.”
      I left the room and walked through the crowded billiard hall. When I got upstairs, the sunlight outside was so bright I couldn't open my eyes. The girl I was looking for had disappeared, but the girl wearing the rhinestone shirt hadn't left yet. She came over and asked shyly, “Do you want to friend me on WeChat?”
      I smiled awkwardly, waved my hand and said no. Then I asked her, trying to seem casual, “Did you see where the girl in the white short-sleeved shirt went?”
      Her face changed drastically. She said, “I didn't see her. I guess you won't find her, either.” I scratched my head and left, feeling empty inside.
      I went to the underground poetry club several times in the days that followed, but I never saw the girl in the white short-sleeved shirt again. Later I passed the teacher qualification exam and got a job teaching. The billiard hall was converted into a gym and the side rooms were used to store piles of barbells and dumbbells. I think the feeling of frank honesty I experienced that evening, brought on by that poem and that hatchet, will never come to me again.

Text at 《百姓人家》 p. 202. Also available here.
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5. Roe Deer under the Moon (月下狍)
Tana (塔娜)

      Gramma Sonia was drunk again. The sunlight from the setting sun hit her face but she didn't chase it away. She just kept on snoring. “Little Lanky, take Kaka to let Meemaw have a look. Carry it in your arms. It should go to her.”
      I wondered if Sonia was awake or talking in her sleep. I was thinking about something else. I picked up a piece of pine bark and threw it into the fire pit. The fire crackled. Autumn was almost over.
      Kaka, a female roe deer, took sick at the end of summer. It turned up its nose at the salt lick and wouldn’t eat moss. It was nesting, shedding tears toward the sky. “Oh. Oh.” It huddled under the fence. “Oh. Oh.” It wanted to call out, I guess, but couldn't. When moonlight spread over the ground, its eyes followed it and looked up to find the moon.
      Wolves were howling in the distance, one howl after another. I couldn't sleep and decided I might as well sit up. I walked outside. Kaka was awake, too, and it lowered its eyes and watched my shadow approach. “Oh. Oh.” Its cry was as thin as a newborn fawn’s. I almost couldn’t hear it. I squatted down. I hadn’t been able to look into its eyes since summer. It reminded me of my own daddy's eyes. Daddy must be in heaven now. Sonia said he’d gone to the tallest pine tree. I think Daddy was reluctant to leave the forest.
      I stood up and looked around. The wolves’ howling had gone deeper into the mountains. Right then I couldn’t hear anything except the wind rushing down through the trees. I went back to get an animal skin and put Kaka on it. I held it in my arms. “Let's go to Meemaw's place,” I said as I stroked its back.
      I didn't know what was going on with me, or why I had to go to Meemaw's place right away. Meemaw, who was seventy years old, had gone to the prairie three months before. They said some family's flock of sheep had gotten lost in a valley and she was the only one who could find them. Did she find them? If they went into the valley in summer, no one could find them. They wouldn't want to come back. Sonia’d said that when she was drunk. I thought Meemaw would be back in her birch bark tent by now.
      The moonlight was bright. The path Kaka used to walk on when it was well was right in front of me. I didn’t need the moonlight to walk to Meemaw’s. I was already fourteen years old and quite familiar with everything in the forest. Kaka moved in my arms, and its whimpering couldn’t have been any thinner. I held it tightly. The deer’s breathing became shallow, like a thin mist.
      “Do you want to get down now? You can’t,” I told it. “What would you do if the wolves showed up?”
      We walked in the moonlight. I’ve walked this road countless times, but this was the first time I’d walked to Meemaw's place alone at night. Kaka was getting heavier.
      Sonia had said that to me, too. “You are getting heavier, Lanky.” Her two little eyes smiled and hid behind her curved eyelids when she said it. I was eight years old that year, and Sonia was carrying me on her back to ask Meemaw for help. It was also a moonlit night like this, and Kaka followed behind. Kaka was about to become a mother at the time -- Duma was in her belly. She didn't look like she wanted to be a mother at all, jumping and running like that in the moonlight.
      Sonia said that all creatures like moonlight. Sonia knows everything, but she still couldn't do anything for my illness. Meemaw, who lives at the end of the two forests, could cure me. We also walked on this path back then, and the moonlight pushed and drove us to get to Meemaw's place in a hurry.
      I stayed in Meemaw's bark house for five days and got better. Sonia was ecstatic. Something else made her happy, too. Kaka gave birth to Duma beside Meemaw's fire pit. Sonia kissed my forehead at the time, then turned and kissed Kaka. "You’re a mother now!" Sonia said happily while she petted Kaka. Kaka was dancing in her two little eyes.
      Time really does fly. Sonia’s old. Kaka’s old. Kaka’s a grandma now. Her children are running around in the forest but she prefers to stay with Sonia.
      The moon was above the treetops by then. Fog was coming up from the Little Leaf River. The moist water vapor, grayish white in the moonlight, covered the other shore. A good thing we didn't have to cross the river. Meemaw's house was in front of us. The place where the dark trees gathered was swaying in the dim light. I was very excited.
      “Kaka!” I shouted with joy. She was quiet in my arms.
      “Kaka, wake up! Kaka, wake up!” That’s what Sonia’d yelled when she brought the injured deer home. “It's alive.” Now it was my turn to yell. Its panting was like a spark rising from Meemaw’s fire pit, passing through the chimney and gently floating up through the trees.
      “If you run into wolves on your way back, put it down in front of them.” In the dim light, Meemaw didn't even glance at Kaka.
      “How could I do that?!” I asked in alarm. Meemaw couldn't hear me. My voice just ran wild in my mind. Meemaw was blurry in my eyes, and the fire pit was blurry. We went outside and the house was blurry. The moon was brighter now, but it was blurry, too. “Kaka, are my eyes as useless as Sonia's?” We went to the river and I soaked my eyes in the water. Sonia’d told me people do that when they’re distressed.
      Had Sonia sobered up, yet?
      We didn't run into wolves. If we had, I wouldn't have done what Meemaw said. Meemaw said that when life ends, everything should return to its regular state. She was wrong this time. The wolves hadn't shown up, had they? I wanted to carry Kaka back to Sonia in my arms. I held it tightly. Its body was as cold as the river water.
      The sun had found the house. Water vapor was running around the roof, leaving a colorful halo on the black tip of the roof.
      Grampa Panda came out of the house. When he saw me, he lowered his head and sobbed. "Sonia’s…. She’s gone up the tree."
      Kaka was still in my arms, but I was too tired. I saw the needles of a tall pine tree trembling and swaying. The moon disappeared from the sky.
      I stood there with no strength left. Kaka eventually ran away from my arms.
Translator’s note: The switch between “she” and “it” in pronouns for Kaka is in the original. Perhaps it was intentional. Maybe just sloppy writing.

Text at 《百姓人家》 p. 205. Also available here.